Glass Jar
by Whispers To Kill
Summary: [Eating Disorder Trigger Warning] Cautiously, Mathew concealed a glass jar of vomit within the orderly drawer of his desk; ironically, it sat alongside his meal plan, standing in cruel protest to the concept of recovery. The desk corner bore into the palm of his hand as he struggled to support himself; he paused, entranced by the mystique of the jar. [FACE Human AU]
1. Glass Jar

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

Cautiously, Mathew concealed a glass jar of vomit within the orderly drawer of his desk; ironically, it sat alongside his meal plan, standing in cruel protest to the concept of recovery. The sixteen fluid ounce jar swam with acrid water and mucilaginous chunks, smelling putrid and dripping repulsive beads of the liquid onto the surface of the drawer. The jar released a revolting perfume, and the glass surface greedily absorbed the regurgitation's heat. The desk corner bore into the palm of his hand as he struggled to support himself; he paused, entranced by the mystique of the jar. Vomit no longer appalled him; instead it had become an object of normality – even an object of _fondness_ for the action cleansed him of his sin.

Languidly he attempted to recall the events that had triggered his purge, and his mind convulsed beneath shame as he succeeded. Disgracefully, he had smuggled two of the alluring sugar cookies displayed on the buffet table for his brother's birthday and devoured them like a gluttonous, undisciplined fool. With shame, he recalled how each moist, sugary cookie broke beneath his teeth in delicate crumbles, spreading their delectable sapor across every taste bud. The savory vanilla frosting had melted with each bite and bewitched his stomach with its creamy, scrumptious charm. The guilt that had encompassed him following his consumption had seared his rationale to ashes, and the trance he had resided in during his indulgence was shattered and replaced by the hysterical need to cleanse his body.

He flooded his insides with a glass of water and plunged his fingers into the depths of his throat. He reveled in sensations of amaurosis and vertigo as nausea racked his body, and he relished the ache that soared through his chest each time his stomach convulsed and disgorged. With pleasure he observed as lumps of fruits plunked into the jar, followed by a gelatinous mush the resembled the cookies (in flavor and color), and chunks of peanut butter encased in the remaining gelatinous scraps of bread. Acid washed his teeth and stained his abused appendages; he basked and he writhed beneath the irresistible pain and the enticing solution.

An ecstatic holler from Alfred roused him from his reverie. Apathetically he acknowledged that his brother had begun to unwrap his birthday gifts and that the most polite course of action would be to leave his room and join his brother in celebration; the idea quickly fleeted, and he resigned to slouch against his desk chair.

Vaguely his consciousness nipped at his mind, whispering "You've been consumed, Mathew! Don't you see what you have become? Weak – floundering beneath the hands of your disorder. You can be more than this. Your disorder robs you! There was a time when you loved your brother's birthday; joined him in celebration; rejoiced as he whooped gleefully at the gifts he received; laughed over cake and ice cream with friends and family. There was a time when you were free. Now you are gone, listless, a carcass stumbling after a label named 'skinny,' and subservient to the concepts of scales, measuring tapes, and calories! You are in bondage to your disorder; you could be more; you could be free at the hands of recovery!"

The thought nursed a minuscule flame, deep in the cavernous depths of his mind, yet the voices of his disorder shrieked louder and quickly engulfed the song of recovery, snuffing the flame out. After all, birthdays were only an excuse for the weak to consume excessive calories and to increase their fat and skinny was crucial to happiness.

However, truly he was captured, asphyxiated, and drowning in that little glass jar, flailing in the acid, and corroding away, but his eyes had been blinded and replaced by his darling disorder.


	2. Plastic Cups

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.  
**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

The frigid temperature of the farfalle pasta prevented the greasy glob of butter from melting and spreading its salty sweetness over the aliment; his fork attempted to mash the stubborn spread and diffuse it across the food, but his attempt was insufficient. He had dumped such an immense amount of Pecorino Romano over the farfalle that the sapor of pasta was nearly inexistent. The flavors of sharp cheese, gelatinous butter, sweet salt, and cold dough flooded his mouth, melted in his saliva, and induced a hypnotic state of pleasure as he delved into his feast.

Forkfuls of the substance were crammed into his mouth until his cheeks were bulging as each taste bud greedily absorbed the savors. Cheese swam in saliva and melted into taffy-like goo, and the clumps of butter released surges of creamy, salty bliss. He jammed the forkfuls into his mouth as quickly as he could flick his wrist, and his fork soon screeched against bare porcelain in order to alert him that the dish had been emptied. He bolted to the kitchen, racing time to avoid an encounter with his family, and returned to his bedroom with a full container of refrigerated, leftover pasta. Dissatisfied with the rate at which each forkful could enter his mouth, he cast the utensil to the side and dug his hands into the bowl. Dry clumps of dough caught beneath his fingernails as he shoved handfuls of pasta into his mouth hysterically, and he gasped as the food struggled to sink down his throat in such painfully large, barely-chewed chunks.

The pasta was soon depleted, yet the hunger inside him was an insatiable fire. He dashed between the kitchen and his bedroom as he overbrimed more bowls with cold, creamy milk and sweet, crunchy cereals. Wheat biscuits broke in stringy clumps and poured luscious milk from their bodies; Cheerios were ripped from o's to u's and squished beneath his teeth; and Fruity Pebbles cast candied citrus flavors across every cell in his mouth.

He reached the final bite of his third bowl and halted, horrified. Terror struck him as his eyes drank in the emptied dishes that were cast about his room and the bloating of his stomach. Trembling and anxious, he yanked the third drawer of his desk open and snatched a stack of plastic, navy blue cups, desperate to cleanse himself of the repulsive items he had allowed to enter his body. He arranged four cups in the miniature trashcan besides his dresser and collapsed onto his knees, tipped a water bottle against his lips, and drowned his stomach in an alluvion of water. He arched forward, horribly aware of the way his stomach piled against his knees, and dove two fingers into the depths of his throat. He wiggled the appendages and waited in agony for the first purge to rack his body.

Water sprayed forward with small grits of cereal, and he quickly replaced his fingers, flicking them against his tender throat. His eyes squeezed shut and watered as hot vomit flushed his mouth and spewed into one of the cups, successfully filling it two-thirds full. He gulped down the remaining contents of the first water bottle and wiped his fingers on a discarded tank top; once again, they began the journey into his esophagus and disgorged his stomach of the remaining cereal in torrid gushes of a gooey substance, flecked with colorful speckles of cereal (sometimes whole) and bits of curdled milk. The viscid cereal plopped into two cups and often splattered his face and the surrounding area with putrid, gelatinous drops. His mouth had turned sour with the astringent sapor of acid, and the scent in the air was thick and sickening.

He cringed as the first lump of pasta hacked its way up his body; he had forgotten how heavy the congealed dough became and was forced to down another bottle of water in response to the resistance. The first purge resulted in a thin stream of salmon colored liquid; the second produced a bulky blob of pasta that crashed into the cup with a hefty plop. An orange, mucilaginous slime had coated the dough and white cheese covered it like spots of snow. The pasta had retained much of its original form; he hoped this signified that the calories were yet to be absorbed. With each retch an ache followed the clumps upward, clogged his airway, and soaked his mouth in a pungent mix of hydrochloric acid and half-digested cheese (which remained of much the same flavor). Vertigo surged behind his eyes and waves of heat and throbs of pain dances beneath his skin.

The fourth cup finally filled as he struggled to summon the final bits remaining in his stomach; both limited by the volume of the cups and satisfied that his stomach was now vacant (as hunger had begun to seep into his body once again), he slouched against his dresser. Exhaustion engulfed his body. He felt the strain of each breath wash over his sensitive teeth and enter his lungs; he felt the throb beneath his skull and the ache in his chest; and he felt his form tremble and the purge-induced hot flashes begin to subside.

Numbness overtook him, coupled with shame and regret. His day was ruined; a binge and a purge both prevented him from attempting recovery and attempting restriction. It eliminated any possibility of success and simply abandoned him as another despicable human failure deprived of self-control. He had tainted his figure with calorie and fat and attempted to repent by cleansing his appalling form in a sea of stomach acid to little avail.

Ninety six ounces of atrocious vomit had been expelled from his body as punishment for his lack of self-control. His despicable behavior had left him with nothing more than a ruined day and looming sadness, waiting to lull him to sleep. He could do nothing more than flush his punishment to the sewers and wash the day from his body beneath blistering water; desperately, he wished to burn the failure and hate from his heart, yet his pale skin simply flushed and his vertigo only spun him faster beneath the heat.

"Tomorrow will be better," all his voices whispered. "Tomorrow you will restrict; tomorrow you will recover; tomorrow you will binge and taste again," they never stopped shrieking, vehement and vile.

"Yes, tomorrow will be better," he whispered, never knowing which voice he would choose to guide him.


	3. Feel

**Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of purging & eating disordered behaviors/thoughts.**

**Bulimia/Self-Help Hotline: 1-314-588-1683**

**National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-93102237**

* * *

Vertigo threaded his eyes shut and twisted his body, causing him to shudder and convulse in agony. Pain pulsated beneath his skin and pounded its angry fists against the back of his skull, and nausea swept through his body as his stomach's contents were heaved upwards. A powerful, pungent taste coated his tongue, and he flinched as the putrid scent of vomit rushed into his nostrils. His trembling hand fell from his throat in one slow, listless motion and dangled at his side. A cough racked his body as his lungs struggled to absorb oxygen in large, ragged breaths. Despite the food still contained in his stomach, he slumped against his desk chair and halted his purge.

Immobilized and exhausted, he stared at the terrible mess he had created. As usual, he had disgorged the cereal from his stomach so quickly that much of the food's original form had been retained. Rainbow bits bobbed in a sea of chunky salmon goo, and lumps of apple protruded from the bottommost layer. The mucilaginous substance had splattered the carpet and left hideous orange splotches, but it mattered little to him.

No kiss or pinprick could wake him from his numb reverie. He had awoken apathetic and despondent; his reasoning for having risen from bed evaded him. His ears were deafened to the world by the vehement whispers of his disorder; his eyes were blinded to all but his hideous, corpulent form. The blood beneath his skin seemed empty and colorless; he felt nothing but dry agony, and in his attempt to experience something – anything at all – he had succumbed to Mia's cry for taste.

His body had been showered with food from binge upon binge. His tongue had tasted sugary candy bars; sweet, savory pies; cool ice cream with fluffy vanilla whip cream; ripe banana slices on crunchy, milk-soaked cereals; and crumbling, toothsome chocolate chip cookies. Still, not even the most flavorsome of sapors had evoked any sense of relief from his emotional cell.

His fingers turned his medication bottle in his hand; he listened to the sweet music as each pill rattled against the plastic container. He doubted the bottle to contain enough to have a drastic effect on his body, yet his hysterical need for relief sent four pills sinking down his throat. After all, eight times his dosage was bound to do _something._

He plopped onto his mattress, submerged himself in the darkness beneath the covers, and writhed beneath an alluvion of aliment and hate. Tears welled at the base of his heart, yet he had neither the energy nor capacity to let them flow from his eyes; instead, they pooled in his chest, and formed a bleak, lonely sea. Drowsiness began to seep into his eyelids like a villainous poison, and the sultry voices of Ana and Mia sung a sweet lullaby to lull him to sleep.

"Sleep, sweetling, and relieve yourself of your own presence. In your peaceful slumber you may not touch a crumb so find a pleasant dream where you're happy once again. Just remember that when you awake, we'll be waiting for you right here in your heart."


End file.
